My father knows

My father knows many things. But when I was in the seventh class, I knew something that he didn't. I knew that he knew the office.

At least, that's what I told Sr. Antonio, the nun who taught us Hindi, and who almost gave up teaching, and went into a silent cloistered existence, all because of me. I don't really blame her. If I had to teach me Hindi, I would have given up. Just given up.

The exercise had Sr. Antonio, pacing up and down the front of the class (thank you God, for a crowded class, with closely set bench rows, which prevented teachers from walking down to the back of the class), throwing out English phrases, which we were supposed to translate. There were some deeply complicated phrases, but in the interests of preserving her own sanity, she gave me an innocuous sounding "My father goes to the office" and recognising that here was a simple phrase that even a dolt could tackle, I answered triumphantly, "meri pitaji daphthar ko jaanthe hai". (rama, I beg of you, do not, DO NOT, point out all the things wrong with that sentence. I have quite a bad inferiority complex as it is.)

I think that was the turning point in the relationship between Sr. Antonio and me. She decided then that I was definitely going to drive her insane, and proceeded to figure out whether she could turn the tables. She almost succeded. She definitely succeeded in making me cry into my pillow every night. I still loved school. It was only the hindi and painting classes and the associated nuns that troubled me.

But you know how life balances these things? Well, it was in the ninth class that Mr. Gupta, God Bless the man, and all his descendants for the next seven generations, came to teach me Hindi. Mr. Gupta was the Hindi teacher at Small Big Brother's school.

Mr. Gupta's style of teaching was so different from Sr. Antonio's. He started the session with a five minute short discussion on current affairs (in English, whew!), and then picked two phrases/words from our discussion to base the subsequent Hindi class on. The second day he came in, sat down, and began, "So sad, Lord Mountainbatten died today" . I just fell in love with him, and was determined that I would do my best for this darling of a man, who cared enough about teaching an arrogant, ignorant, little girl, that he would lay himself open to ridicule. If he was willing to trust me with his less than perfect English, the least I could do was return the compliment. The result was perfect understanding and a diligent student.

After the next test, I came away wanting to dance and sing out my marks to the world and more important, I came away leaving an open-mouthed Sr. Antonio. I had won the battle. She was just never the same again.

My father, of course, never having known that he knew the office, continued going to the office.

P.S. I switched to French after the tenth.